“It’s all right, you made an error but you can start again. And maybe it wasn’t really a mistake but an opportunity for deep learning. I did the same thing earlier in life. It’s not easy to acquire wisdom, but it’s possible and eminently worthwhile. Just keep on in your journey.”
-Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, From Age-ing to Sage-ing, 1995
Rabbi Shalomi’s words sounded like my mom. I underlined every word as it almost was verbatim, my Mom’s words to me: patient, tender, wise and compassionate and ultimately, using each moment as a teaching opportunity.
Like a sour soup of sinigang, flavored with plum tomatoes and the right balance of salt to the broth, eaten on cold nights, my mom’s words soothe me just right. Time with her is like having my ‘well balanced sinigang’ and her life’s examples become my balanced hot sour soup for life.
It is not like pinapaitan, a bitter aftertaste one gets from conversations that cut deeply with stern criticisms. It is not like kare kare, a dense soup of peanut butter, which drags you down from self-absorbed tales.
My mom tries to take up less space. She listens to your words, but mostly your sentiments and even an unexpressed desire to live up to some ideals. I try to live up to her example, but the more I try, the more I feel I will never be like Mom. When she was in her seventies, she went back to school and studied Mandarin language. Why, I asked, to which she responds, “I feel like I am conversing with your dad, but in Mandarin, as he used to share Chinese words with me. Now, I know how to say thank you – Xièxiè.”
It was Saturday morning in Manila. “Halika na, (come now) we have to be there early as there will run out of fresh fish.”
She takes her purse, matching her simple yellow sundress, fitted to her size 2 figure, and step-in to boot. Her hair is well-coiffed, the result of having them in pink tube rollers and bobby pins that held the curls in place the night before, now unfurled to reveal soft curls that draped her shoulders. She is a proud, dignified, well-dressed woman.
We are now walking to the Central Market, few short blocks from my home. It is a Saturday routine that I did with my mom, some days willing, and some days not. She presents me with a choice, a choice she patiently tells me: “If you come, I can carry some fruits for our panghimagas. If you don’t, then, I can only carry the ingredients for sinigang.”
She deliberately pauses. Pausing allows me to decide. Pausing allows me to step up, be mature, and be helpful. Pausing also tells me that my mother trusts my good judgment. And prompted by her faith in me, not wanting to disappoint her, I choose to go.
She uses so little words, and when she does, I easily recall the hierarchy rule she followed as we bought the sinigang ingredients.
“Mom, how do you choose what to buy?“
“Oh, I go with what your dad wants. Then, if he is not firm about his choice, I go with what your Ate Rose wants next, then, you and so on down the line.”
“Oops, I told myself, that means, I will always be kulelat, as I am third in line.”
So I had to devise a plan. “Mom, what about if I choose the fruits?” After all, she said my dad’s choice for entrée, then, my Ate Rose, so perhaps I can get what I want, lanzones and atis? She agreed.
When we got home, I thought I had the whole basket to myself. But, at the table, a fair simple rule is followed, the fruits are counted and they are divided equally amongst us all: five sisters, my parents and our helper, eight in total.
I remember when the counting started for lanzones. “Ito lima sa iyo, lima sa kanya, lima sa akin…at sa iba pa. (Five for you, five for her, five for me.)”
I tried to reason out that a small size does not equal the big lanzones that another sister got. Maybe I was trying to convince her, but perhaps because she looks at me, seeing I am about to cry, my Mom conceded. Maybe she simply played along, and then gave me her portion.
“Nandaya na naman ang kapatid namin.” Sigaw ng lahat. (Our sister is outsmarting Mom).
“Dad, nandaya na naman si Tabachoy (Dad, our sister is less than honest).”
I was called Tabachoy to poke fun, to diminish me a bit for outsmarting them in the counting of lanzones. And soon another label, ‘pilyang kapatid (mischievous sister).’
I laughed and plotted my next strategy. I had many nicknames: Tabachoy, Tabby, all related to my chubbiness.
Just when I thought I had outsmarted my sisters, my dad and my mom devised another way of leveling the playing field. They called my name and declared it was my turn to wash dishes.
Except, I foiled their plan. I hid inside the toilet, feigning diarrhea from eating too much lanzones, but most times, God must have been on my sisters’ side, as I sit there “Ere ere, ere” and like a car engine that would only rev..and not start, my innards sounded loud, and my bottoms hurt. Two parts of my body hurt from outsmarting fairness.
So, my Ate washed the dishes, foaming in the mouth, fuming mad, as the chore defaulted to her. Ate promised to get me. To this day, she still waits for the score to get even with the ‘pilya.’
Yet, the true lesson I came to learn much later-on was “ the one who outsmart others harvest their detriment.”
Those family dinners gave me my early lessons in life, the need to share and share fairly.
After a full day of teaching at least 30 children in science, my mom gathered us at the table for our fish sinigang.
“Kain na habang mainit ang sabaw (Eat now while the broth is hot).” She waited until everyone gathered at the table. She handed out the bowl, spooning the rice, then, the sinigang and she hands it to each of us.
It was a routine she kept night after night, regardless of how tired she was. Sometimes, I wondered where her energy came from. But, for us, all we knew were our hungry stomachs bidding us to the table.
In rushing downstairs, we slide down the polished wood banisters, for our sit-down meal.
“Ma, ang sarap!“ (Mom, it is delicious). Where did you find all these good looking vegetables? The colors fascinated me: white, purple, green. It was my way of acknowledging the hard work she did, to call attention to it, and to let her know she nurtured us well.
I took some kangkong, okra, eggplant, and turnips. I chose them for colors mostly, but soon, my taste buds felt satisfied, and now, my tummy felt full from eating the fish sinigang.
Her fish sinigang tasted good. It had enough tamarind juice flavor, the right balance of tomatoes, chilies, onions and a hot broth, flavored with fish sauce, with the tilapia fish that we just bought from the market.
She mustered her last ounce of energy to extend herself, even more, just to listen. All five of us, sometimes in overlapping conversations, no different from what she did for her students. Without passing any judgment, with just an open ear and an open heart, she gave us advice for the next day of school.
After, a feeling that her sinigang hit the right spot, a feeling that all was well around the table, a feeling that the circle was complete. I felt full. I felt the love of my mom and my family.
Later that evening, more like early dawn, I got up. I saw Mom studying. I was not aware she gets up each night, quietly reading her books, while everyone was asleep.
“Ma, what were you doing?“ She showed me her books, studying for finals for her Master’s of Science subjects. She stayed up till four am, and three hours later, went to school to teach thirty students. She came home, had dinner with us and corrected her exam papers, and later, studied again, repeating that cycle night after night for years.
She could have brushed me off not answering my question, but she paused. She stopped to converse, to show me what she was reading. She was patient with me. Such is my mom, ever so attentive, even while she pursued her desire for higher education.
I glanced at her table lamp, a single light bulb with enough brilliance to read from. I never forgot that evening; it became part of my path in life, her footsteps to follow, and equally, her love for higher learning. I did the same, many years later, and obtained my Juris Doctor degree. At that time, I made no correlation at all that I was following the path my mother carved out for me – while working, pursuing her personal interests, but also taking good care of her family.
One day in California, I called her, wondering where she was. She was 70 years old then. She nonchalantly shared she was going to adult school.
“But, why Mom? You are now retired. You are not working anymore,” to which she answered, “I wanted to follow your dad’s experience, I am curious as to what it takes to learn a language. And now, I can even count: ling, yi, er, san, si, wu, liu, qi, ba, jiu and shí. “ I am also learning about their culture.”
But she did not stop there. At 80 years old, she acquired a new skill, a reconnection with cooking, not her passion, as she abandoned this some years ago, when my dad took over cooking for her. I gave her a cookbook, Memories of Philippine Kitchens by Amy Besa. She called me to ask where to buy the ingredients. She was so delighted that she got to make two recipes.
Today was my regular call, every Tuesday. My mom sounded joyful. “I cooked myself leche flan and sinigang. I just followed the recipe from the cookbook you gave me, remember?“
I stayed present to her joyful moments, asking her how she did it, where she got the ingredients, and imagining the fish sinigang, the ingredients we bought together in Manila, and the nightly dinner conversations we had. But what I remember most was her sense of independence.
For Corina, my daughter’s graduation in high school 27 years ago, my Mom insisted on taking the bus.
“No, I do not need a ride.”
“Ma, I will pick you up,” I offered.
In testing the power of wills, my mom will always prevail. She was so proud, as she was the first to arrive, ahead of anyone who drove their car to the event. She proudly came on time. Later, she shared her journey: she took three buses and three hours to travel 25 miles.
While traveling in New York recently to see the Statue of Liberty, I walked to 86th and Lexington, a distance from 92nd and Madison, took the subway, then the Staten Island ferry. I cried a bit, as I recalled the hardships my mom took in being present to all of us, even to her grandchildren. She also went to New York first, and endured the harsh, cold winters for six months and then, went home. It was not till years later she immigrated with my sister Rose and lived in California.
My mom taught for nearly three and a half more decades, science and math at middle school, at Los Angeles Unified School district and Artesia-Bellflower-Cerritos School District. When she bought her house in Cerritos, we got worried with her long commute to Virgil Junior Middle School, but she persisted and reassured us she can handle all these bus stops. Later, we learned she was bothered not by the commute but the lingering cold winds while waiting for the buses.
At 80 years old, she would not think twice about standing at the bus stop just so she can get to where she wants to go. She did not believe in asking her children for rides, but she scheduled her Saturdays with Asuncion, my younger sister and together, they would do the errands and cap it with Saturday lunch with her wisdom shared with my sister.
Yes, Ma, I remember. You are my model of strength, my model of persistence, my model of self-discipline and my model of independence, a feminist ahead of your time. Yes, Ma, I will never forget what you taught me; just like the fish sinigang we shared, I will always remember how you fed my hungry heart and me.
And, today, I am fuller! Maraming salamat sa lahat ng pangangalaga mo. (Thank you for all your caring efforts). I love you very much!
Footnote: Fast forward to 2019. I just visited my mother’s tomb. Next to her is my Ate Rose, who passed away in 2016, 60 days of my Mom. Next to my Mom is my Dad, who passed away in 2000. Three of them now have gone home to God. I stepped out to the backyard and a white butterfly with a black dot on its right wing flew next to me. I know that is my Dad watching over me, my angel in heaven.
* * *
Prosy Abarquez-Delacruz, J.D. is a writer, after having retired from a 27-year public service at a state health agency. She served as LA Civil Service Commissioner, appointed by Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa, as part of a five-member board. She supports the slow food movement and buys organic produce at Los Angeles Farmers Market. Her essays have been published in the Los Angeles Times, Philippine News, Taliba and Amerasia Journal. She wrote this in 2007 and has updated it in 2019. She has been writing for the Asian Journal for 11 years now and occasionally contributes to Balikbayan Magazine. She authored her first book, “Even the Rainbow Has a Body,” an anthology of 31 distinct artistic legacies of Filipino, Filipino-Americans and Italian Americans.
